


The Change

by Phantomsforever



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, MCD...maybe...kind of...ambiguous...you'll see, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomsforever/pseuds/Phantomsforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years, five months, and nine days post-Reichenbach, Sebastian Moran, now head of M&M Consulting Services, discovers startling news. He doesn't react well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Change

The dark light of morning crept into the small room. The flat was nothing special, nothing new, nothing _different_. Couch, lamp, table, television, wireless router; the bare necessities. The sofa was nice, the table was nice; everything was IKEA, and none of it was personal. The walls were white and unadorned, same as they’d been the day he moved in. It could have been anyone’s flat. But this man was far from being just anyone.

The glow of the television screen fell on the sleeping man’s face and caused it to be softer, younger. It didn’t look like him. It wasn’t him. He’d changed drastically in the past few years and it showed. He’d become harsher, but the light of the television wiped that away. He was just there, occupying space, doing his job until the day was over and falling asleep on the sofa with a bottle in his hand, unable to make it into thei—his bed. 

Sebastian Moran shifted on the couch, groaning as he awoke. It was too early to deal with the shit of everyday life and he wanted to fall back asleep, but he knew it wouldn’t happen. He sat up, stretched his neck and arms; the couch wasn’t the best place to sleep and went to put the kettle on. Tea was necessary before any sort of work was to be done. While the water was heating up, he grabbed his fags from the counter and went outside to smoke. Jim had always insisted that he _never_ smoke in the flat, and Sebastian hadn’t broken that rule. Even after three years, five months, and nine days. Well, ten, now. 

The cold air of the October morning hit Sebastian’s face as he went out onto the balcony. London was spread out in front of him. Meager people were waking up, going to their meager jobs, completely unaware that the most dangerous man in London was watching them, judging them. They had no inkling of this man who was running their lives, pulling the little strings and making them dance. Jim had loved it; loved watching his ideas spread over the city and seeing them come to fruition. 

Sebastian hated it. 

The water was finally boiling and he flicked the butt of his cigarette down onto the street, seven stories below, and walked inside to pour the water, make his tea, and sit. That was the worst part: just sitting there, completely alone. As unpredictable as their schedules had been, Sebastian always tried to make time to have tea with Jim in the morning. They wouldn’t usually talk, words weren’t necessary at that point. They’d just sit, perhaps Sebastian’s hand was around Jim’s shoulder, or Jim was resting his head on Sebastian, it didn’t matter. But they’d be together. For those few quiet moments in the morning they were Jim and Sebastian, not yet Moriarty and Moran. 

Tea gone, sentimentality pushed down, Sebastian went to take a shower and perform the rest of his morning routine. It was the same every day. Wake up, make tea, shower, leave. Nothing changed, nothing was new. Moriarty’s empire was running smoothly, Sebastian at the head and it was going…well. Or as well as could be expected.

That is, until a few days ago. Sebastian’s men had caught whispers that Holmes was still alive. That the bastard had somehow survived his gracious swan dive into the pavement and was once again tormenting London with his “Detective” agency. 

It wasn’t possible. Had Jim died for nothing? Sebastian wouldn’t let that happen. As he slipped into his suit jacket and straightened his tie, he stared into the mirror for a moment longer than necessary. Any lingering emotions drained from his face. Shoulders back, chin up, slight frown, hard eyes; Mr. Moran was ready to face the day.

Moran left his flat in a hurry, black car waiting patiently for him on the street. He hadn’t been Sebastian in a long time; his employees didn’t even know his first name. “Montague Street headquarters,” he deadpanned to the nameless, faceless driver. Of course the man had undergone extensive background checks before he could even be considered for the menial job of chauffeur, but Moran hadn’t bothered to learn his name. He’d be disposed of once he learned too much, dead in an alleyway, replaced by another meaningless drone.

Although it was a dangerous thought path to wander, Sebastian knew he’d basically become that mindless drone. He never knew the extent to which Jim had inserted himself into his psyche, but now that he was gone... Sebastian wasn’t hopelessly in love, nothing so pedestrian, but when they’d run London, the UK, and most of the world, for that matter, life was good. Things _meant_ something, even if the point was just to make that maniacal laughter spill from Jim’s mouth. And now it was simply going through the motions, keeping Jim’s empire running and downing a bottle of Talisker at night to push back the dark thoughts that tried to overtake his mind. They were always there, nudging at the walls he’d built up, reminding him that everyone he’d ever cared for had been killed. Sadh, mum, and now Jim. He knew he wasn’t meant to be happy, he’d known that by his fifth birthday when Da had beaten him for being just a little too rough with baby Sadh. Da had cared for her back then. Oh, how that had changed. 

Consumed by his dark thoughts, Sebastian missed their arrival at the warehouse, and was only jarred out of his mind when Nameless opened the door. Sebastian sat in the car for a few extra moments, and seconds later, Moran stepped out into damp, grey, London.

The doors were held open for him, as his underling, Damien, rushed to his side. “Morning, Mr. Moran.”

Moran waved away the pleasantries. “Information on Holmes?” he asked as they quickly ascended the stairs to his office, each of the now ex-sniper’s steps causing the little assistant to take three. 

“He—he,” Damien panted as he tried to keep up with Moran’s long strides, “We don’t know, sir. We know he’s alive. He was seen with Watson at 0500 this morning by Smith.” Damien shuffled through the manila folder and pulled out a picture. It was obvious. Holmes, still wearing that same damned coat, was with a very jumpered, very angry Watson. Moran almost sympathized with the man. Almost.

“That’s all you have? Not good enough, Damien. Increase their security to level 5 and alert me if _anything_ new arises.” Moran sat at his desk and turned on the computer. The assistant was obviously shaking, he’d still not gotten used to Moran’s habits, and when he wanted to be Sebastian could be extremely intimidating. “That will be all. Get the coffee and then you are dismissed.”

The twitchy man looked relieved as he rushed out of the room and returned, not a minute later, with Moran’s black coffee. He slopped a small amount onto the desk and as he was stammering and blubbering apologies, Sebastian waved him out. “Leave. Now.” Grateful, Damien left and finally breathed once he made it into the hallway and out of Moran’s gaze.

Sebastian sighed and mopped up the spilt coffee, taking a sip as he did so. Holmes was back. Actually back and Jim had died and there was no reason for it all. He’d lost. They’d all lost, really. Leaning back in his black leather chair, Sebastian somehow felt emptier, number, if that was even possible. Jim was gone, Holmes was alive, and Sebastian was alone. 

Probably how Jim had planned it, anyway, little bastard.

Moran now searched the CCTV camera feeds, looking for traces of what the detective might be up to now, and what he could do about it. The Baker Street feed was constant on one side of the screen and the other was searching London. Moran couldn’t believe how stupid Holmes was, but no. The man wasn’t stupid; he was almost as intelligent as Jim. Why was he back and why wasn’t he hiding? What made it safe for him to return to his little pet doctor and beg forgiveness? Why did Watson get his mastermind back while Sebastian only had his booze?

As Moran searched, his coffee grew colder and the day dragged on. He received various reports from his team leaders about successful jobs and hits. He praised them, conditioning the men to work even harder to please him. And those that didn’t, well, they wouldn’t have to worry much longer. 

The feeds were quiet when Moran left for the night. The air was even colder and the black car was still waiting, always waiting. He shooed the driver away; he needed a walk to clear his mind. A cigarette in hand, and his coat drawn close, Sebastian made his way home, wrapped in his thoughts.

The walk home was cold, dark, and above all, lonely. The cigarette didn’t alleviate the coldness creeping through Sebastian’s bones. Coldness that had nothing to do with the weather. Sebastian wasn’t an emotional man; he took everything with a stoic expression and a sardonic smile. For months following Jim’s de—, following It, there was nothing. He though he would have at least felt _something,_ missed the criminal’s insane (and bloody brilliant) ramblings, missed the little noises he made when he was thinking, or at least missed the sex. But he didn’t. He didn’t feel anything, didn’t _miss_ anything about the man he’d once called his…his what? They weren’t in love, so no “lovers”. “Partners” had a distinct gay sound to it. And “boyfriends” was simply wrong. So what was Jim to Sebastian? He was his boss, and his sometimes fuck buddy. But it was so much more than that. There wasn’t a word in the English language to describe the bond between the two criminals. The bond that Jim had shattered the day he decided to shove that gun into his mouth.

It wasn’t until a year after The Incident that Sebastian felt again. He’d been walking home, much as he was now, and he broke. Right there on the street, the ex-Colonel dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands, overcome with guilt and everything he’d been suppressing for those past months. He wasn’t meant to be happy, dishonorably discharged from the military and working for a “Consulting Criminal,” not exactly the stuff of fairy tales, but he was content with his life, up to that point. That is, until Jim met that damned Holmes monster and his cuddly side-kick doctor. Moriarty, not Jim, had become obsessed with the game. All the man could think about was defeating Holmes and proving just how fucking clever he was. 

Moran was forced to step up to the challenge of running the everyday tasks of their corporation as Moriarty became more and more entranced with the detective. The criminal wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t move from his laptop as he planned out every step of his little trick. Sebastian became Jim’s keeper as the smaller man was consumed. The Colonel could only stand by as he watched Moriarty descend into his maniacal state. Everything was to do with Holmes. _Everything._

And in the end none of it mattered. Jim hadn’t even li—.

In the months leading up to his death, Sebastian felt like he’d already lost Jim to Sherlock and perhaps he’d mourned the man’s death, then (it wasn’t likely, though). On The Day, he didn’t feel much of anything when he climbed the stairs to the rooftop and saw those brown eyes staring vacantly into the sky. They’d once been filled with such light, every expression of Jim’s face echoing in his eyes. They were dead now, blank, sightless orbs. Sebastian shut them as he cleaned the blood from around Jim’s suit. He wiped the Beretta and pocketed the gun. Sentiment. There were no unnecessary touches, no caressing of the face he’d once lov—. No screaming, no crying, no begging some nonexistent deity to bring Jim back. Nothing. It wasn’t Jim; hadn’t been him in months. Sebastian walked away from the scene and into the nearest bar; someone else would clean Jim’s mess, like always. For once, that person wasn’t Sebastian.

He hadn’t gone a day without a drink since The Incident.

And that’s what he did as soon as he walked in the door of his flat. Moran pulled out the bottle of Macallan and didn’t bother with a glass. He knew he’d drink the entire thing and eventually fall into a fitful sleepless sleep as reruns of Planet Earth played on the television. Jim always wanted to watch for the tigers. It was the same every night. It was the same every day. He’d wake up, get dressed, tell Damien he was a moron, come home and drink. Everything was the same. Nothing ever changed.

As he sat on the couch, Sebastian shoved the thoughts away. It did him no good to miss Jim, so he didn’t. But as with every advantage, there is a disadvantage. He didn’t feel anything. The scotch dulled his senses and sent him to a void.

After an hour or so of creatures traipsing through the jungles, killing each other, the bottle dropped from the sniper’s hand and he fell into a restless sleep.

_Sebastian squinted as he walked into the room. A large body of deep red liquid spanned the length of the floor. On the other side, he could barely make out the figure of a young girl. He knew her, but he couldn’t remember how. She was small, perhaps 13 or 14, and she was on fire. She screamed as the flames consumed her body and, without a second thought, Sebastian dove into the pool. He had to save her. She was so young, so helpless._

_The hot liquid hit his face and, at once, Sebastian realized what it was. Blood. It was filling his every orifice, pooling into his body as he tried to make his way across the vast expanse. He was a strong swimmer, he knew that from his army days, but the liquid was viscous. Paddling through it was taking every last bit of strength that the Colonel had and he was still no closer to the girl. Her screams filled his ears as he was pulled under the surface. A hand was on his leg, dragging him downwards, holding him back. He tried to kick it away, but the grip held firm. He couldn't make it to the other side. He couldn't save her. There was nothing he could do to help her. Who was she? Why did he feel like he needed to save her?_

_Oh._

_Sadh._

_He tried to call out to his little sister, but the blood filled his lungs when he opened his mouth. He watched in horror as her face contorted with pain and it pulled his heart out of his chest. He watched the still beating organ sink to the bottom of the pool as the little girl collapsed in on herself and formed a pile of ashes. Sebastian swam harder, but didn't move any closer. He couldn't save her. He could never save her._

_A tall figure rose from her ashes. The silhouette was familiar, someone he should know, but the face wasn’t right. It was grotesque. The mouth of the figure was connected to the man's jaw by a thin, sinewy thread as it let out a horrific scream. Blood was pouring from the creature's mouth, filling the pool higher and higher as Sebastian struggled to make it to the other side. He had to save them, both of them, but it was impossible with the level of liquid rising as it was. He was panting, which only caused the blood to fill his lungs faster. He couldn't rescue them. They were gone and there was nothing he could do about it._

_Finally, after what seemed like hours of fruitless paddling, Sebastian gave up. Blood filled him and he was falling. Deeper and deeper until all he could see was darkness and it consumed him._

Sebastian awoke with a start. It was early; the sun was only peeking up from behind the horizon. He was sopping wet, drenched in sweat, and he was cold. Freezing. Shivering as he sat up, Sebastian rose to take a shower and wash away the dream. The very same dream had haunted him as a teenager, when he first entered the military after Sadh’s dea—, but the male figure was new. The Colonel knew who it was. Who else could it be? Even if he could escape thoughts of Jim in his conscious mind, his subconscious dragged the man into his dreams. 

Shaking his head under the stream of boiling water, Sebastian sank to his knees, unable to stand as memories of Jim and Sadh began flooding his mind. He couldn't continue like this; he couldn't cope when nothing changed. He kept living the same day, the same night, the same everything. It was all together too much and not enough.

The water was cold now, and he stepped out of the shower and toweled off his blond hair. He sat on the edge of his perfectly made bed and pulled the box out from under it. The wooden case felt smooth as he ran his fingers over the edge. He knew what was inside, and as he dialed the combination and lifted the lid, couldn't imagine that he'd let himself fall to this place. He was Sebastian Moran, former Colonel and right hand man to the most dangerous man in London, and now he was contemplating _this_? Jim would be appalled.

The cool barrel of the Beretta felt comforting in his grasp as he flicked off the safety. Jim had loaded the magazine fully that day, but he’d only needed the one bullet. The Colonel took a deep breath as he lifted the barrel to his mouth and shoved it inside. He started to close his eyes as the heavy weight of the gun rested against his tongue. With one final breath, one final act, Sebastian pulled the trigger. 

The gun clicked.

His eyes were open.

**Author's Note:**

> Ambiguous ending is ambiguous. <3


End file.
